


Amongst the Green

by garfunkelandgoats



Series: TBDH!Verse [2]
Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past self harm, Suicidal Ideation, takes place in the years leading up to Bemidji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garfunkelandgoats/pseuds/garfunkelandgoats
Summary: "Used to be, we were monkeys, right? And in the woods, in the jungle, everything's green. So, in order to not get eaten by panthers and bears and the like, we had to be able to see them, you know, in the grass and trees and such. Predators."In which Wrench learns that some predators hide easier in white than green.Direct sequel to There Be Dragons Here (aspects of it will not make sense unless you've read that fic first)





	1. Prologue

Bemidji, MN  
2006

 

Wrench grips the steering wheel with white knuckles, his jaw clenched so hard he feels his teeth start to ache with the force of it. He stares resolutely at the road ahead, blinking furiously, as if he were Orpheus leading his dead love from the Underworld, and if he were to look away for even a moment, or acknowledge the screaming emptiness inside his chest, then that makes the whole thing real.

He exhales sharply, feeling tears prick as heat rises behind his eyes, and chokes back a sob.

In his mind all he can see is that smug son of a bitch smiling at him from the chair as he tells him how he cut his partner’s throat and he wants to smash that piece of shit into dust, strangle him until he turns blue, punch him again and again until he doesn’t look like a person anymore, because the thought that Numbers is dead and the syndicate is gone and fucking _Malvo_ of all people is the one still drawing breath is too agonizing to contemplate.

Fuck.

Numbers is dead.

There’s two new holes in him, starting to burn behind their stitches as the painkillers wear off, but they’re nothing compared to how infuriatingly, overwhelmingly empty he feels at the prospect of living without Numbers.

His grip tightens further. It feels like he’s going to tear the goddamn steering wheel off in a second but he doesn’t care.

 _Dead._ Just like that. Like he’d never even lived.

Wrench can’t help but imagine Numbers bleeding out in the snow, alone, while he was stumbling around like a chicken with its fucking head cut off. He could have stopped it. He could have found him in time, could have told him he didn’t want to split up, could have shot that fucker in the face when he had the chance, Christ, _something_.

_Gotta be sure._

It’s his fault. They could have just thrown that weaselly little shit Lester in the fucking lake and gone home and none of this would have happened. This didn’t have to be their last job, but it is, because he was too fucking stupid and too fucking stubborn not to force the issue. To prove a point. To win that stupid fucking argument.

It didn’t have to end like this, but it did, and now there’s nothing Wrench can do about it, and he feels so fucking useless because Numbers is already gone and he never got to say goodbye and he’s never coming back and _he could have stopped this._

He thinks about Numbers lying cold in the morgue.

Wonders what they’ll do with him.

Now that he thinks about it he has no idea what the hospital does to the bodies nobody claims. Maybe they’ll cremate him. Maybe they’ll bury him in an unmarked grave somewhere. He isn’t sure which is worse, but it ultimately doesn’t matter because whatever they do with it, that body isn’t Numbers anymore, because he’s long gone and nobody in the world is going to care except for Wrench.

Wrench pulls over to the side of the road and lets his forehead drop against the wheel, sobbing openly, his shoulders heaving with the force of it. He lets out a low moan that turns into a scream that even he can’t hear, striking the wheel and the dashboard in frustration as he nearly tears it off before slumping back in his seat, sighing miserably.

There’s nothing he can do.

There never was.

Tears roll down his face that he makes no effort to stop, his labored breathing gradually slowing as he calms down. He can feel the stitches on one of his wounds tearing and hisses through gritted teeth at the pain, pressing against the bullet hole with his hand to stop the bleeding.

Wrench just wants to go home, but he knows now that he doesn’t have one anymore.

Outside his window Minnesota stretches on forever, the sky above greyer than it was yesterday.

And so he gets back on the road, drives a little bit slower as he sniffles helplessly, occasionally wiping at his eyes until his cheeks feel almost as raw as he does.

Wrench shivers and feels immediately ill. He’s only wearing the hospital gown over his jeans; the jacket was soaked through with blood and they’d had to cut it off him to take the bullets out but he was able to grab what’s left of it while he was leaving and so it’s folded on the passenger seat next to him, along with Numbers’ scarf.

He can’t look at the fucking thing. Doesn’t even know why he took it, except _of course_ he did--he knows Numbers loved it, the stubborn bastard wore it all the time since he bought it as a gift a few years back. It’s stained with blood and the sight of it makes him want to throw up because that’s _Numbers’_ blood from when that sick son of a bitch slit his fucking throat and it’s there because he’s fucking dead and gone forever and Wrench is never going to see him again but it’s all he has left and so there was nothing to do but steal it from the hospital even if the sight of it makes him want to die.

It didn’t have to be like this.

The three days between waking up in the hospital and meeting with the lady deputy were some of the worst of his life--rivaled only, he’s sure, by whatever’s left of it. From the moment he first opened his eyes in that sterile fucking place he wanted nothing more than to know what became of his partner, but found himself ignored by the few people with reason to enter his room. It was fucking infuriating, and with each passing hour his hope faded, like some part of him knew even before Deputy Solverson said it: _dead_.

What really hollows him out is how goddamn final it is. Sure, he knew better than to think that he and Numbers were going to wile away their days on a porch somewhere, but a part of him had always held onto the hope that if nothing else they’d get to die together, in some blaze of glory. He’d always hoped that he’d be the one to go first. 

But the world isn’t kind like that.

The world doesn’t give a shit what he wants.

And so he’s making the lonely drive in a car he stole from the hospital parking lot to the hotel where he and Numbers were staying in the hopes that he can salvage some of their belongings before the whole town is covered in Feds.

It takes another twenty minutes to get there, and he feels a sense of loss as he pulls into the parking lot and gets out. Just a few days ago he left with Numbers. They’d thought they would be coming back together to get their shit and go once Malvo was dead.

He fumbles for the key, producing it from the pocket of his ruined jacket, and closes the door slowly behind him as he braces himself against it, his eyes sweeping over everything in the room. Wrench feels haunted, like there’s Numbers in everything here, in the walls, in the air, but never where he wants him. Never by his side, where he belongs. Belonged.

Wrench pointedly avoids looking at the two beds, only one of which had been slept in while they stayed here, no matter how tight a squeeze it had been. He was too big for the damn thing because of course he was, but they’d ended up tangled together in the middle of it like always.

In his mind’s eye he sees them lying there together, the night after they questioned Lester. He sees his own hands tracing the line of Numbers’ jaw, his tattooed collarbone, lingering bitterly over the bruises from where Lester electrocuted him. He’d held him close that night, closer than usual, breathed in his scent mixed with the lingering static, and wanted to destroy everyone who has ever hurt him, but especially Lester.

That little puke may not have killed Hess but he can still rot in hell for all Wrench cares.

He curls in on himself, stifling a whimper as his grief hits him like a punch in the gut. He’s never going to hold Numbers again. They had all the time they’re ever going to have, and now it’s too late, and he’s wracking his mind for the last thing Numbers said because he needs to know now that he’ll never say anything else.

It was freezing and they could barely see a foot in front of them when they were tailing Malvo in the car but Numbers’ hand was in his and he ran his thumb over his fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze before they reached for their guns.

Numbers looked beautiful surrounded by the snow, he’d always thought as much but he remembers that thought crossing his mind after Malvo gave them the slip. His partner squinted at him, the snowflakes catching in his dark hair and on his eyelashes and Wrench would have kissed him then if he had known, would have held him close and never let him go if he’d had any idea that this was all he would ever have of him.

What the fuck did he say, Wrench wonders, letting his head fall back and thump against the hotel room door.

Did he say anything?

He grips the scarf tighter in his hand where it hangs at his side, ignoring the way his stomach lurches at the feeling of dried blood.

Wrench makes his way to the bed and nearly collapses on top of it, staring down at the scarf for a long moment before burying his face in it, his shoulders shaking.

After a long while he tosses the ruined thing aside and collapses back onto the bed, letting his legs dangle off as he stares at the ceiling. 

He realizes now, as he traces the story of his life from the hotel room to that shitty old house back in Texas, that he was never going to get a happy ending.

He’s not the type. Neither was Numbers.

So he really should have expected this.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, doesn't lessen the sting of knowing that not only is the love of his life, the only person left in the world that he cares about, _dead_ , but he didn’t die easy, either. They’re violent people so it makes sense that they would die violently but still the thought of that fucking animal opening Numbers’ throat and letting the cold in makes him sick at his core.

Wrench grabs the pillow and hugs it tight to his chest. It doesn’t smell like Numbers anymore but he hadn’t expected it to. He stays like that a long while before finally sitting up again and turning on the television.

_Shooting in Fargo leaves 22 dead_

There are pictures of the outside of the syndicate building. Showing what Malvo did. 

He has no love for his coworkers but something about the thought of all of them, dead, hurts more than he thought it would. But not as much as the thought that for the second time in his life he is really, truly alone in the world. No home to go back to.

Wrench eyes the bedside table, feeling the roof of his mouth dry as the insides of his wrists begin to itch in a way they haven’t in years.

Slowly, like he’s moving in a dream, Wrench opens the drawer and produces Numbers’ pistol, sitting back as he cradles it in his hands as if it were made of glass.

Does he really want to do this?

...Is there anything else he _can_ do?

He isn’t sure that he believes in an afterlife, but if there is one he’s almost certainly going to hell.

Wrench shakes his head, his hands shaking as he turns off the safety.

He’s already in hell.

Hell is a life alone.

He raises it to his head, breathing in and out through his nose in an attempt to steady himself.

Wrench stares at the collage of newspaper clippings and photos stuck haphazardly to the wall in front of him.

Stares at the photo of Malvo.

Sticks the barrel of the gun in his mouth instead,

His finger rests against the trigger as he stares a long moment, the image of Numbers in the slow flashing behind his eyes, before he puts the safety back on and sets the gun aside, his hands still shaking uncontrollably.

Wrench gets to his feet, walks to the wall as cautiously as a baby deer learning to walk for the first time, and plucks the photo from the wall, staring at it intensely as if in doing so he could burn a hole through the dammed thing.

No, he thinks. Not today.

And so Wrench gathers what he can of their things; the case files, his jacket, the scarf, whatever money and guns they hadn’t walked into the blizzard with.

He leaves that room behind, loads what he has into the car, and drives away from Bemidji, away from Minnesota, away from the memory of the man he loved and the man who killed him. He knows what he has to do, knows what he’s living for now, knows what it will take to make something of this feel anything approaching okay.

In a week his and Numbers’ mugshots from after the barfight will be in every newspaper. He’ll be sitting at the back of a bar outside Sioux Falls when he reads it and realizes that he doesn’t actually have any pictures of Numbers. He will run his thumb along the black and white image and miss him terribly and so he’ll cut it out and carry it with him everywhere he goes.

In a year he’ll be cleaning his guns in a rundown motel room in Indiana when he sees on the news that Lorne Malvo has been shot and killed, that he was found with a briefcase full of tapes, that Lester Nygaard was chased onto thin ice.

And Wrench will set aside his gun and know that it was all for nothing, that there is no justice in the world, that nothing good was ever going to come of his misery.

He will gather up his things and get in his car and drive away from that place and find another ring to throw his hat into, another organization of shitty men to die for, another cause to pledge himself to.

In another five years he will take the fall for a biker gang that couldn’t have given two shits about him, and his name will be mentioned in connection to Bemidji for the first time in a long time, and he will find himself taking that lonely bus ride to the slammer on the worst possible night, seated next to the woman who will give him a new purpose.

And in another month he will walk into another motel room to meet a man who claims to be from Narwhal, who says he wants to help them take the bastards down from the inside. 

And when he walks into that room that fateful day his eyes will be drawn to the wicked scar across the man’s throat and the familiar emptiness of his eyes and he will know him like he’s known no one else in his life.

And Numbers will look back at him as if he were a stranger.


	2. Ghosts

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

Numbers fiddles with the heating dial for the car, exhaling sharply with irritation when the fucking thing _still_ doesn’t work right. This is ridiculous. They live in the Midwest. People _die_ from the cold, and those useless assholes at the dealership can’t be fucked to fix the heating system on the goddamn thing before they sell it? If he ends up with a frozen beard or Wrench gets icicles hanging from his sideburns he’s fucking sueing, that’s all there is to it, the syndicate can fuck off with their “keeping a low profile” bullshit.

He feels a tap on his arm and turns to see Wrench glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, lips turned up slightly.

_You’re obsessing about the heating again, aren’t you?_

_It’s dangerous and it’s irresponsible and you know it._

_I told you I’d fix it._

_Wrench, I love you, but you’re not as good with cars as you think you are._

His partner laughs silently, trying his best to look offended before he grins in spite of himself.

_That was uncalled for, you dick._

Numbers is about to respond when the man in the trunk starts screaming again. He sighs heavily and rolls his eyes, turning in his seat and shouting. “Hey, shut the fuck up back there!”

When he turns around, shaking his head, Wrench raises an eyebrow at him.

_What?_

_Nothing,_ Wrench signs, and turns back to the road. Numbers frowns and lightly smacks his arm to get his attention before repeating himself.

_What?_

_I’m trying to drive._ Numbers groans loudly and rolls his eyes, slumping in his seat. Wrench’s lips twitch upwards for a moment, amused, and he counts it as a victory. Outside his window the world is grey and white, the treeline seeming to speed by at the speed of light, disappearing into his rearview mirror the moment he gets a good look at any particular tree.

A voice in his head worms its way in, plants the thought that his his own life is just the same. He supposes it is, in a way. It feels like he’s so far away now from who he was as a boy, who he was when he ran away, who he was when he first took a life, that they may as well be different people, left far behind in the distance. The only thing connecting his past to his present now is Wrench. 

It’s weird to contemplate but Wrench is truly the only person alive who knows anything about him. 

Numbers looks to his partner and finds himself contemplating the set of his jaw, the way his curls stick up in the back, the line of his nose, and feels a wave of affection wash over him, followed quickly by embarrassment. Christ, has it really been seven years since they got together? 

They don’t talk about the things Gene said in that godforsaken warehouse. Not since it happened, anyways. For the next few weeks they’d screamed at each other about it sometimes and held each other others, but in the years since the knowledge of who they are has faded into the background. It’s just a piece of information now. 

Wrench is Wyatt. 

Wrench likes his coffee black. (Even if it’s shitty gas station coffee, which Numbers cannot even begin to understand.)

Wrench doesn’t eat when he’s on the job. (As soon as they’re home he does nothing _but_ eat. Numbers can’t say he approves but he gets why, what with Wrench practically giving himself an ulcer trying to get everything right when they’re working.)

Wrench is a hitman because of Numbers. 

Wrench can’t sleep unless there’s a fan in the room even though he can’t hear it and the sound drives Numbers fucking nuts. (He’ll still keep it on every night, even if he lies awake waiting for the warmth coming off his partner to drag him down into its depths where even that annoying fucking sound can’t find him, because _of course_ he will.)

Wrench is going to wise up and leave him some day, or he’ll die on the job and Numbers will have to live with that guilt until he finally works up the nerve to blow his fucking brains out.

If he keeps it filed away, keeps it a footnote in the long list of things he knows about his partner, then he doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t have to contemplate just how fucked up it is. Wrench, for all his talk of communication and honesty, isn’t exactly eager to talk about it either, which Numbers is beyond thankful for. He adores the man, loves him more than breathing, but there’s only so many Big Serious Relationship Talks you can have with somebody without wanting to throttle them.

Numbers gets his partner’s attention again. _Do you think we’d win?_

Wrench frowns. _What the hell are you talking about?_

_If icicles sprouted from my balls and I sued the dealership. Do you think we’d win?_

He wrinkles his nose and huffs out a laugh. _Don’t be gross._

_It’s a serious question. Do you think we’d win?_

_Sure, and then T-R-I-P-O-L-I would have both our asses._

Numbers shrugs and turns back to the road. 

He’s well aware of what it means to live this life. Knows there’s no such thing as retirement, knows that if he ever sticks his neck out from cover the bosses would be more than happy to chop his head off, like a chicken on the chopping block. There isn’t any such thing as leaving in his line of work, he’s always known that, but sometimes it really strikes him what he’s gotten himself into and he locks himself in the bathroom to cry for an hour or two while Wrench pretends not to know.

It’s eerie, how well his partner knows him.

But then, he supposes, he’s been a presence in Wrench’s life far more than the younger man has been in his. Still, he thinks as he glances to his partner, examining once more the curls sticking up where he forgot to tame them that morning, he knows he needs Wrench far more than Wrench needs him.

One would think it’d be the other way around; after all, he lived most of his life without Wrench in it, but deep down he knows that despite all his grumbling about the whole ‘relationship’ thing there’s no way he will ever leave because the only time he feels like something approaching a decent human being is when he’s with him. 

He hopes Wrench knows, too. That way he doesn’t have to say it.

He’s a stubborn bastard, if nothing else.

Wrench turns off the main road and the car shakes a bit as it goes over the uneven path to the lake. Numbers rolls his eyes when the man in the trunk starts screaming again. He’s some squirrely little accountant who was supposed to be laundering money for the syndicate and was enough of a dumb fuck to think he could get away with skimming a bit off the top. 

Numbers knows he’s a bad person for what he does, but he can’t find it in himself to have much sympathy for idiots like this guy who think they’re tough shit, like they’re too smart to be killed by the gangsters they involve themselves with because their lives are too empty without the constant threat of death hanging over them.

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s just the same.

Finally, at the edge of the frozen lake, Wrench parks the car and so they both get out and circle around to the back. Fucking idiot tries to punch Wrench when they open the trunk and so Numbers tosses him to the ground like a ragdoll and grips his hair in his hand and slams his head off the ground as hard as he can to knock him out.

“Fucking idiot,” he huffs indignantly, his breath curling away in the cold air like smoke. Wrench leads the way, drill slung over his shoulder, as Numbers drags the unconscious accountant a few feet behind him. All he can think is that his back’s fucking killing him, and there’s gotta be an easier way to do this.

Finally, Wrench stops, prepares to start drilling a hole in the ice, and Numbers drops the man’s legs with a sigh of relief, cracking his back with a pained grimace.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, before setting to work tying him up.

The accountant stirs, once his hands are done and only the legs remain to be bound, and Numbers pokes him in the chin with the toe of his shoe, grinning wickedly.

“End of the line, bud. It’ll go easier if you hold still.”

Of course it isn’t that easy.

The stupid motherfucker starts thrashing, and so Numbers kicks him in the face and has to practically sit on him to get him to hold still while he binds his feet. Once it’s finally done he looks back to see his partner watching him, barely holding back laughter.

_Real helpful, Wrench. Thanks._

Wrench grins, almost boyish in a way professional killers shouldn’t look--but then again when you’re built like a brick shithouse it probably doesn’t matter--and walks over to help Numbers with their victim. Together they drop him into the ice and he disappears into the dark water. Numbers watches a long moment after he’s already disappeared.

That man had a life, he thinks, and this is where it ends.

He wonders if he’ll ever end up under the ice like this.

Wonders if the lakes of the Midwest are full of ghosts, ready to swallow him up if the day ever comes that he becomes more trouble than he’s worth.

Wonders how long it takes to die.

What comes first: drowning or hypothermia?

Drowning, probably.

The image of his father’s car flashes behind his eyes and so he closes them, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Feels his partner’s hand on his shoulder and looks to see Wrench watching him, concerned. He waves him off and starts heading back to the car.

He likes what he does, but he’s tired.

A part of him almost wants to slip under the ice and fall asleep in those cold waters.

Numbers hears the crunch of snow under Wrench’s boots as he follows him, feels the familiar warmth that comes with his partner’s presence, and guilt settles heavy in his chest. He needs Wrench more than Wrench needs him, but he knows how much it would hurt his partner to know he was thinking like that. 

Especially considering his partner’s own history with such things. 

He tries not to think about the scars on Wrench’s wrists; they don’t stick out to them now as they once did, he knows they’re just a part of Wrench’s history, but the thought that Wrench could have died before they met hollows him out in ways he can’t describe.

Numbers doesn’t know much about what happened in Wrench’s foster home to make him want to do that to himself, but he does know that if he ever meets the fuckers who adopted him after Hammer killed their father he won’t be merciful.

It scares him, sometimes, how protective he is of Wrench.

His partner’s just as bad as he is, sure, and he knows he can handle himself easy--better than Numbers can, certainly--but there’s a certain innocence to him that makes Numbers’ heart hurt. He isn’t quite so jaded, still seems to hold out hope that they can be happy together, that this will end in anything but heartbreak and death.

Numbers knows he’s being an ass, knows Wrench would get annoyed if he ever said as much, but he feels like the goodness in his partner is a flame he wants to protect from the icy winds of the life they live. He doesn’t ever want to see himself in him.

When they get back to the car Wrench doesn’t talk about what happened on the ice, only circles around to the trunk with the drill while Numbers slumps in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He drives away without saying anything, without even looking at him.

He doesn’t know how much more of this job he can take, and it’s making him stupid. Reckless, even. It’s dangerous and it’s dumb and he’s afraid that he’s going to get his partner killed for it but he can’t seem to help it. They’ve had countless arguments about work in the past few months, and Wrench has been getting ulcers worrying about him, and there’ve been nights where he presses against the solid weight of his sleeping partner and sobs uncontrollably, apologizing over and over again even though he can’t hear him. Because he can’t hear him.

Numbers is losing it. He’s slipping, has been for a while now, and he’s so fucking afraid that Wrench is going to pay for it.

_I’m sorry,_ he signs, when they’re twenty minutes from home. Wrench doesn’t respond, only clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the wheel.

When they pull into the driveway of the house they’ve been living in the past four years, they see the lights are on downstairs and there’s an unfamiliar car in the driveway. Numbers feels his blood run cold as he and his partner exchange a worried look.

This can’t be it, he thinks.

Numbers grabs the pistol from the glove compartment and signs almost frantically. _Circle around back. We’ll flank them._

Wrench nods, expression grim, and contorts his fingers into a familiar sign, making Numbers’ chest tighten until it feels like it’s about to burst as he repeats it back to him: _I love you._

It’s become a ritual of theirs, every time things look like they’re going to be dangerous, like maybe they might not come back. Numbers always grumbles about how sappy it is but he worries that when the day comes they might forget, and so he does it without any complaint beyond just token griping.

They get out of the car and he can hear the crickets chirping loudly as the sun sets. He watches Wrench walk away as his partner heads to the back of the house before heading forward, preparing himself to shoot somebody if he has to.

As he creeps closer to the glass door he can see a bit of their kitchen behind the curtains, and--what the fuck?

A little girl in purple pajamas runs past the door into the living room, giggling.

What the fuck?

He furrows his brow in confusion, taking the safety off his gun. Surely, somebody coming to kill them wouldn’t bring a kid, right? That doesn’t make any fucking sense, but then again, none of this does.

Numbers opens the door and steps in cautiously, sees Wrench in the hallway and waves to get his attention before quickly signing.

_There’s a fucking kid here._

Wrench stares at him in disbelief. _What the fuck?_

_I know!_

There’s a noise coming from the stairs and Numbers jumps, immediately pointing his gun by reflex even though the safety is still on. When he sees who it is he does a double take, but it’s nothing compared to Wrench, who stares at their intruder with wide eyes as if he were seeing a ghost.

And in a way he is, because the man standing in their kitchen looks almost exactly like him, save for a rather patchy attempt at a beard and a bit more softness around the middle.

“What the fuck,” Numbers says aloud, as Wrench beams and pulls his brother into what is almost certainly a crushing hug. The little girl runs by again, this time lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, and Numbers feels like he’s in some bizarre, fucked up dream.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but Hammer certainly wasn’t it.


	3. The Other Shoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long, I've been really busy lately and have had very little time/energy to write

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

 

Numbers hangs back, hovering awkwardly by the door as if he were going to bolt. A part of him wants to. This is dangerous, he thinks, clenching his jaw shut as he watches his partner reunite with his long lost twin. Dangerous and stupid. He runs his thumb along the grip of his pistol, frowning, when he feels a tiny hand tug at his sleeve and quickly stows it in his jacket.

The little girl looks more like Letters than Hammer, with her mother’s eyes and complexion but a mess of familiar curls that reminds him of the twins immediately despite its darker color. She grins up at him, missing one of her front teeth, and he feels an immediate and slightly dizzying sense of deja vu. 

“Oh, hi,” he says hesitantly. Numbers has never been good with kids; they make him uneasy, always have, save for Wyatt. Maybe that came with being an only child. Maybe because he’s a trained killer. But kids have always been a foreign element to him, he doesn’t know how to navigate those waters.

When he thinks of kids he thinks of Wyatt. Of disappointing Wyatt. Of a room in a quiet house far from here with blood on the walls and a gun in his hand.

Even now he looks at this kid, at his partner’s niece, and all he sees is a liability. 

_Who are you?_ she signs, with a fluidity that tells him she probably learned ASL before anything else.

Hesitating to respond, he glances to where Wrench’s hands are in an excited flurry of motion as he catches up with Hammer, and then turns back.

_A friend of your mother._

The little girl follows his gaze and grins, something mischievous in her eyes that is so _Wrench_ it makes something inside him ache painfully.

_Is he your husband?_ He laughs a little helplessly, pointedly ignoring the pinprick of want that goes through his chest when he glances at Wrench again, shaking his head.

_He’s my partner,_ Numbers signs, adding as an afterthought: _Not like that._

The kid is clearly unconvinced, raising both eyebrows at him while she stifles a smile. God, she really does look just like Letters. He feels a tightening in his chest and finds himself missing his friend for the first time in years. It occurs to him then that she isn’t here, and worry stirs within him.

_How’s your mom?_

She shrugs. _I wouldn’t know._

Numbers frowns.

_She left when I was three._

“Are you fucking--sorry, kid.” Numbers swears aloud, earning himself glares from both twins. He knew it. He fucking knew Letters was going to do something like this. God damn it, didn’t he tell her this was a bad idea?

She fucking left. Of course she did.

He doesn’t know why he’s so pissed about it, it’s not like he knows the kid or has reason to really care save for her relation to Wrench and it’s not like he gives two fucks about Hammer’s feelings but. But she never called him. But he should have known she was going to run off like that. But he can’t stop thinking about his own mother, about the few pictures hanging in his childhood home where she actually smiled, about the fact that the last time he saw her she acted like he wasn’t even there.

Numbers can feel Wrench’s eyes on him, worried as ever, and immediately bristles.

The long-faded scar near his shoulder where his partner shot him starts to tingle and itch for the first time in a long time and he remembers exactly how much they’d risked to get Letters and Hammer away from the syndicate.

Looking at Hammer now, gone soft, a kid in tow with Letters to the wind--and of course _she_ was smart enough not to come back to Fargo--he can’t help but think they’ve made the biggest mistake of their lives. If the syndicate found out they were here...he knows Tripoli holds them in high regard, knows they’re the best team of assets at the syndicate’s disposal, but the big man doesn’t take betrayal lightly, that he knows. He’s had them kill men for less.

And the thought of Wrench dying for this….

If the kid wasn’t here to see it he’d sock Hammer in the jaw for being dumb enough to come back here and put all their lives in danger.

Pointedly avoiding eye contact with Hammer, he heads over to the two twins, plastering on a smile. _I need to talk to you for a second._ Before Wrench can answer he grabs his partner by the arm, practically dragging him into the next room and shutting the door behind him.

_What’s your problem?_ Numbers closes the space between them before Wrench can say anything else, snaking his arm around the taller man’s neck to bring him down to his level as he presses his lips to his. Wrench lets out a small, surprised noise as he reciprocates eagerly before coming to his senses and placing a hand on Numbers’ chest to get him to back up.

_Don’t try to distract me._

Numbers grins. _Was it working?_

The taller man’s lips twitch upwards for a moment. _Why are you acting like this?_

Numbers exhales sharply, kneading the bridge of his nose between two fingers. _He can’t stay here._

_Why the hell can’t he?_ Wrench signs forcefully, nostrils flaring. He looks like he just sucked a lemon, which Numbers would probably find hilarious and more than a little endearing if there wasn’t so much at stake.

_You know why. Come on, man._

_Say it, asshole._

Numbers throws his hands up and bites back a frustrated scream. _Are you fucking kidding me right now, Wrench?!_

His partner glares back, arms crossed over his chest as he stares him down.

_If you’re gonna kick my brother and his little girl onto the goddamn street I want to hear you say it._

“Chrissakes, man--” Numbers sighs heavily, feeling more helpless than he’d like under the intensity of Wrench’s gaze. _You’re such a fucking child sometimes, you know that?_

_Say it._

He glares back at the larger man, crossing his arms in an attempt to stand his ground that he knows from experience isn’t going to work. Finally, Numbers caves, grimacing in frustration. He’s gonna fucking regret this and he knows it but he’s never been good at saying no to Wrench.

_Y’know what? Fine. Fine, they can stay. But if F-A-R-G-O so much as glances in our direction they’re going to a fucking hotel._

Wrench beams and Numbers feels more than a little light-headed.

Dinner isn’t much better.

They bring in extra chairs from the yard--not that anybody ever comes over, but they came with the place--and act like they’re a real family and Hammer hasn’t been away for eight years, like their lives aren’t being put in danger by his very presence. Numbers can’t find it in himself to eat his chicken, poking at it with his fork even though it’s been marinating all goddamn day and, judging by the look on Hammer’s face, is probably great.

He thinks this was a huge mistake.

He thinks they’re gonna get fucking killed.

He thinks that his partner is far too good for the life they’ve carved out for themselves.

Watching him now, making silly faces at Amelie while they sign back and forth too fast for Numbers to follow, he thinks that in a kinder world Wrench would have been a great dad. Certainly better than his own, anyways. He feels hopeless as he watches him, like the end is creeping up on them faster than it was yesterday, like they’re at the edge of some great precipice and the ground is starting to crumble beneath their feet. He feels like no matter what he does there is no way this thing they have will end well.

Like it was never going to in the first place.

Numbers thinks about the way Wrench lit up when he found out the little girl was deaf like him, wishes he could gather together the warmth blooming deep inside his chest at the sight of it and wrap himself in it. It feels like home, like he’s known Wrench all his life and even before, like even though love as a concept is sentimental bullshit made up to sell greeting cards and overpriced rings he and Wrench are made of the same stuff. Made for each other.

The sentiment leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, a gnawing feeling that he doesn’t deserve this, that he never did and never will, that he could live a thousand lifetimes and he still wouldn’t. He’d like to, he thinks. Live a thousand lifetimes with Wrench and never once deserve him. He could live with waiting for the other shoe to drop just so long as it never did, so long as they could stay like this and pretend they’re anything but horrible people.

Wrench finally notices that he’s being watched and he glances back at his partner, his lips curling back into a sly grin that makes Numbers’ heart hurt.

“Numbers.”

He sighs. He knew he’d have to talk to Hammer some time.

“Long time no see, Ethan. How’s Mexico?” Numbers forces himself to eat, feeling the mouthful of chicken quickly drying and growing tough as he chews it, staring straight ahead.

Hammer doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“He told you my name?”

“Hmm.”

“So, uh, are you….are you two…?” He trails off, visibly uncomfortable. Numbers can’t stop himself from sneering. It’s been a long time since last they saw each other, sure, but the years haven’t exactly endeared Hammer to him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Hammer sighs heavily, setting down his fork. “Look, Numbers--”

“You’re here because Wrench wants you here. Don’t push it.”

“Right.”


	4. Should Have Known

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

Through the open window, blue light streams in to cut through the shadows playing on the ceiling. Numbers stares blankly at the patterns in the cracks above him, tracing mountains and rivers and impossible cliffs in their lines as he lies awake, Wrench’s nose pressed into his hair as the larger man holds him close. 

If he looks close enough, squints hard enough, in the cracks on the ceiling he can almost see the outline of that foster home in Texas, the bedroom where he shot the kid, the river where his parents drowned. A part of him thinks, tracing the path his life has taken, that this, here, with Wrench beside him and Hammer on their couch, is how it will end. 

His life, he thinks, can be summed up in four words, one definitive statement to whomever is listening and judging him for the life he’s led: he should have known..

Should have known better than to bang some old punk for drugs.

Should have known the family he was robbing had a kid.

Should have known he couldn’t run from the wrong he’d done for long.

Should have known better than to join the syndicate, should have known way fucking better than to fall in love with his fucking partner, should have known it would never end well.

Should have known Letters would leave.

( _Should have known Malvo was smarter than he gave him credit for._ )

All these things, he thinks, he should have known better. But he’s nothing if not a fool.

Wrench nuzzles his ear in his sleep, letting out a low grown, and Numbers can’t fight the smile that plays at his lips. The only good thing to come of his utter waste of a life is Wrench, if he’s being honest with himself. He’s never deserved him, never will, but for the last seven years he’s _had_ him, and that’s more than he ever could have hoped for himself.

As much as the job is weighing him down, as much as he wants to disappear beneath the ice, he’s happy with the life they have.

The house is utterly silent, as if it simply floats along next to the rest of the world without ever being a part of it, the air so still he can hear everything--which in their line of work is _definitely_ a plus. Downstairs, the refrigerator door is opened, and he sighs heavily. Fucking Hammer.

Numbers isn’t sure what to do about Hammer.

He can’t stand the fucker, sure, but with the kid he doesn’t like the idea of just kicking them to the curb and leaving them to the syndicate’s mercy. If their bosses found out they were hiding them, if they found out they’d helped them run off with the money to begin with, whatever clout they may be able to pull with Tripoli by sheer competence wouldn’t mean a goddamn thing. 

They’re lucky the bosses turn a blind eye to them at all, considering what’s happened to lower-level assets caught fraternizing, but then again they’re subtle. For all he knows his sneaking suspicion that Tripoli knows they’re a couple is just paranoia on his part.

If they were lucky Hammer would get caught out of the house and they’d be assigned to kill him as some sort of loyalty test.

One that Wrench would fail.

And then, what? There’s no fucking way he’d ever kill Wrench, that’s out of the fucking question, so would they just go into hiding? Spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders?

And what about the kid?

And what if they weren’t lucky, what if the truth came out, what if he had to watch some green jackass put a bullet in Wrench’s head?

He doesn’t want to screw Hammer and Amelie over but given a choice between the two of them and saving Wrench he wouldn’t hesitate.

Numbers braces his hands against the mattress and slowly, carefully, wriggles out of Wrench’s grasp, pushing his pillow back into his place, which his partner promptly cuddles. He stares a long moment--it’s been seven years but he’s still not used to feeling this strongly about another person--before leaning over and kissing Wrench on the forehead.

Making his way down the stairs, he sees the light is on in the kitchen and sighs heavily, leaning in the doorway as he watches his partner’s twin rummaging in the fridge.

“Looking for something?”

Hammer jumps, swearing under his breath when he whacks the top of his head off the fridge. Numbers smirks a little at that.

“Don’t you have any beer?”

“Wrench quit drinking. We don’t keep it in the house.” He crosses his arms, feeling more than a little smug about knowing Wrench better than Hammer does. 

Hammer nods slowly. “...Right.”

“How long, exactly,” Numbers begins “are you planning on staying here?”

“I, uh--”

“Because if our bosses, y'know, the ones you fucked over? If they find out you’re staying here they’ll kill us all.”

The color in Hammer’s face drains as he braces a hand against the counter. Numbers doesn’t give a fuck if it upsets him. Actually, he’s glad it does.

“I get you have a daughter now, but believe me when I say that I’m not about to let Wrench die for either of you.”

“I understand.”

“No,” Numbers scowls. “I don’t think you do. What the fuck were you thinking coming back here?!”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.”

“Oh, is that what you’re going with? You put both our fucking lives in danger for shits and giggles, then?”

Hammer clenches his fist, gritting his teeth as he exhales sharply. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, asshole? Didn’t ruin enough lives before you fucked off to Mexico, now you gotta get us and your fucking kid killed?”

“Fuck you!” Hammer’s face is turning red with anger as he visibly shakes with the effort of not hitting Numbers. 

“Letters liked what she did, she liked the job, and if you thought she was gonna stick around and play house with you and be your kid’s mommy you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.” 

Hammer doesn’t say anything as he leans against the counter, glaring daggers.

Numbers decides to push his luck.

“She didn’t give a fuck about you or me or that kid, so what the fuck makes you think I’d care enough to let you stay here?”

“Because you love my brother.”

He breathes heavily, wishing he could just punch Hammer and be done with it.

“Fuck you.”

The larger man laughs harshly. “What, are you gonna pretend like you don’t?”

“ _Fuck you._ ”

Hammer opens his mouth to say something else and glances to the door behind Numbers, his expression softening. “Oh--”

Numbers turns to see Amelie staring at both of them at the bottom of the stairs, hugging a stuffed rabbit to her chest. He grimaces, walking away. “Shit.”

Hammer goes to tend to her, crouching down to sign reassurances.

He walks out the front door, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the wall, swearing under his breath as he goes to dig a pack of cigarettes from where it's hidden inside a potted plant. 

Taking a long drag, he watches the smoke drift away and wonders what it is that made his life go down this path.

Wonders where Letters is now.

Wonders if he wouldn’t be better running off like she did.

Behind him, the front door opens, and he turns to see Wrench rubbing groggily at his eyes, his hair still a mess. He signs with one hand, surprisingly fast for how tired he is, as he raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly. Numbers wants to kiss him.

_You’re smoking again?_

He shrugs, grinning a little in spite of himself.

_Don’t nag me._

_What, am I your wife now?_

“Shut up,” Numbers laughs, and finishes off the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and grinding the remains beneath his heel. 

_Did my brother say something to you?_

_He’s a dick._

Wrench raises both eyebrows, shrugging, a mischievous look on his face that makes Numbers snort. He lets his hand fall at his side, stowing the pack of cigarettes in his pant pocket, and a moment later finds it intertwined with Wrench’s as his partner brings their joined hands to his lips. Numbers chuckles awkwardly, unable to look him in the eye as he feels his cheeks heat.

_Come on. We don’t have to get up for a few more hours._

He doesn’t have the heart to tell him what’s really on his mind.

Hopes he won’t have to.

Hopes it’ll all sort itself out in the end, that everything will be okay.

Knows it won’t, knows it never does.


	5. Family

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

As Wrench slams his knee into the back of another man’s head, grabbing him , to toss him in the trunk like he weighs nothing, like he were made of feathers, light as air, he finds himself thinking of his niece. More specifically, the sort of life she’s led so far, hiding out in Mexico with Letters and his brother. He’d like to think she’s better off than he was--and he’s probably right in thinking that, too, since it’s not exactly _hard_ to be better off than he was--but still, there’s a nagging thought at the back of his mind that keeps making him hyper vigilant, paranoid, watching her for any signs of fear, any signs of pain, any signs that Ethan has turned into their father.

It’s unfair of him.

He knows that, knows Ethan is doing his best and that’s all he can do, can see it in the way he dotes on the girl that he would do anything for her, that he loves her unselfishly and that’s more than either of them ever got. But still the thought remains.

Is Ethan just like their old man?

Is _he?_

He stopped drinking ages ago, he thinks as he rounds to the front of the car, ignoring the way Numbers looks at him, like he’s shutting down on him, like he’s some fucking _kid_ who neess to be worried over, but drinking was never the problem, was it?

His father was an alcoholic and a bully and an abusive shitstain, but how much of that was the booze and how much was just who he was? A violent man who died violently. Wrench knows that he is no different.

He turns the key in the ignition and they pull out of the empty parking lot, Numbers fiddling with the radio dial and complaining under his breath. 

Wrench may not be abusive like his father was but deep down he’s no better, he thinks as his grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles turning white. He’s just as violent, just as sick in the head, if not more so, because how the hell can he claim to have any moral superiority over his father when he fucking kills people for a living.

And worse, he _likes it_.

He’s good at it.

It may be all he’s good at, but he’s proud of it, proud that he’s better at being awful than the rest of the monsters at the syndicate, that he's more meticulous in his brutality, more effective. As much as it agonizes him to think about, he could keep on doing this until the day he died and never once grow tired of it, never once think of doing something else. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have turned out like this if things had been different--maybe if Ethan had never gotten him to run away he wouldn’t have grown up to be a murderer--or maybe he’d be dead. 

Maybe if he’d been left alone to his devices, had the choice to be somebody good someday, not gone down the path of endless killing and lying he’d have opened his wrists again and done it properly.

Maybe he’d have been better off.

Wrench can feel Numbers’ eyes on him and bristles, schooling his expression into something neutral. 

He doesn’t want to talk to him about this, doesn’t know how to even begin. Numbers has been slipping, that much is obvious, he’s been feeling shitty enough on his own for both of them without Wrench dumping his problems on him.

It’s funny; while his partner is growing tired of the job, he’s agonizing over how much he enjoys it.

The job doesn’t feel so much like a ball and chain anymore, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trapped. Doesn’t mean he has prospects. Doesn’t mean he can ever have a normal life outside of it, that having a little girl running around their house eating their food is anything more than a brief blip of normalcy. Like everything else, it is temporary.

And now, with a man in their trunk who they mean to kill and half a tank of gas, they barrel down the highway and towards what is almost certainly an ugly end. That kid has no business being here, staying around them, not knowing what it is they do and what sort of men they really are.

Ethan shouldn’t have come. Intellectually, logically, he knows that it was a mistake, but he can’t help but be glad that he’s here no matter how the thought of the syndicate finding out makes anxiety settle deep in his belly like a stone. He should’ve stayed in Mexico or he should’ve ran, anything but come back to North Dakota, back to Fargo, back to their doorstep. But...he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t missed him. Despite everything, despite all the miles between here and the house they grew up in, despite the years since they were brothers in anything but name, he can’t look at him without seeing the kid he was, the kids they both were. 

How the hell did they end up here, he wonders? 

It feels like it’s been no time at all since the night he woke up in the hospital with his estranged brother asleep in the chair beside him, since that day in the garage with what’s left of their father’s face decorating the floor, since he woke up in the middle of the night to see the only person in the world who cared to look out for him running off with his dealer.

The way Numbers talks about his life, when he does, it’s like somebody else lived it, like it’s so unfathomably far in the past that he’s lived a million lives since then. Wrench knows they met ten years ago, as daunting as that feels, but in a way the life he lived before they met on that lonely stretch of road is both as insignificant as a distant memory and immediate, constant, always looming over his shoulder.

He’s thirty years old. He’s killed more people than he can count, and will go on to kill countless more and feel nothing for any of them. And yet he still feels sometimes as if he were playing at adulthood, like a little boy trying on his father’s clothes. The thought makes him shudder. Maybe, he thinks, maybe that’s what he is. Maybe he tried on his father’s violence, his ruthless brutality, and found it fit him like a glove. Better even than it fit his father. It’s easy for him not to drink--he tells himself it’s to avoid becoming his father, but maybe he already has. 

After all, he doesn’t have to drink to do what he does.

Doesn’t have any regrets to drown.

It’s a job to him, he thinks, nothing more. Maybe once the thought of what he does kept him up at night, maybe once he laid awake and stared at the ceiling as the faces of the men he’d killed stared back at him, but no more.

And in a way, isn’t that worse?

Isn’t he worse than his father?

Isn’t he just as selfish, just as awful, for doing what he does and feeling next to no remorse for it? 

Killing is nothing to him. He’s able to justify it, compartmentalize it, remind himself that the men who die at his hand are either morons or they’re as bad as he is. They deserve it as much as he does.

He feels sick.

Hammer’s been away from the job, free of the life they lived for eight years now. He’s gone soft. Never thought he’d see the day; Hammer’s always been a hardass, especially to him, that’s how he always knew he cared. When he wasn’t treating him like shit, anyways.

And yet…

And yet. He loves the girl, that much is clear. Would do anything for her. No, Wrench thinks, Ethan isn’t the one who’s turning into their father. _He_ is.

He knows all too well by now where being soft gets you. Where kindness ends. It ends with the little girl in a shallow grave and a bullet between the eyes of everyone he’s ever loved.

It ends with Numbers’ blood on his hands.

But…. _fuck,_ he doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want Hammer to leave, doesn’t want Amelie to leave, doesn’t want to go back to the singular existence he’s known without his twin, but he doesn’t want Numbers to keep worrying the way he is. Looking over his shoulder. Watching both their backs for any signs of trouble. It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to anyone involved.

It’s selfish to keep them here when it’s putting them all in danger but in some ways he’d be even more selfish telling them to leave. Because ultimately he doesn’t want Numbers to be angry with him. Doesn’t want him to die for his stubbornness, doesn’t want his death on his hands.

It’s a matter of what he’s willing to risk, and for whom.

Numbers taps him on the forearm, eyeing him warily. _What’s up?_

_I’m driving._

_So? I know you can do both._

Wrench exhales sharply, resigned. _I’ve been thinking._

_Stop the presses._

The side of his mouth twitches upwards in spite of himself and he shoves his hand in Numbers’ face as his partner grins and swats him away. _Fuck off._

_Come on, man. Penny for your thoughts?_

He snorts. _Don’t be cheap._

_W-Y-A-T-T._

Wrench nods solemnly, letting out a shaky sigh. They never use their real names, not even in private; thought of each other by their aliases for so long they may as well be on their birth certificates. 

_I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you before._

Numbers shrugs, not meeting his eyes. _It’s fine. I get it, he’s your brother._

_No, I mean I think you were right._

His eyebrows shoot up halfway to his hairline. _Are you serious?_

_We need to figure something out. If F-A-R-G-O catches on we’re dead._

Numbers runs a hand through his hair, nodding, visibly relieved. _I’m glad we’re on the same page._

They pull up to the edge of the frozen lake and Wrench hesitates a moment before putting the car in park. _I miss him._

_Who, Hammer?_

_E-T-H-A-N. Who he was back when we were kids._

_I remember him being a little shit._

_He was,_ Wrench signs, expression softening.

_Runs in the family, huh?_

He grins a little. _Shut up._

It fades.

_He could be a bully. Often was. But there were times when….I don’t know. I know you two hate each other but he really did have his moments when he knew how to be a good brother._

Numbers watches him, not saying anything, so Wrench continues.

_I see it in him now. When he’s with A-M-E-L-I-E. He’s good to her, I think. She’s been good for him._

_So?_

Wrench frowns. _So what?_

Numbers gets out of the car, slamming it behind him, and Wrench follows suit. He smacks his palm on the top of the car, dislodging some snow to get his partner’s attention, before repeating: _So what?_

_So I know you._ Numbers opens the trunk and punches their mark in the nose, hauling him out and slamming him onto the snow as Wrench grabs the drill. They make their way to the center of the ice and Wrench gets to work as Numbers ties up the sobbing man, ignoring his pleas for his life.

When the hole is drilled Wrench grabs the man’s feet and helps his partner bring him over to it before together they drop him into the water and he disappears beneath its depths.

_What do you mean you know me?_

Numbers snorts, raising an eyebrow, and Wrench scowls.

_Shut up._

His partner is about to respond when he abruptly stops and fishes his phone from his pocket, putting up a finger as he answers it.

Wrench watches the color drain from his face as he swears aloud, eyes wide.

_What?_

Numbers turns around so Wrench can’t read his lips, visibly anxious as he finishes the phone call. His hand is shaking after he hangs up, shoving it back in his pocket. Wrench turns him around physically, noticing the way he avoids his gaze.

_What?_

His partner opens and closes his mouth as if to speak, still looking like he’s seen a ghost.

_A-U-S-S-I-E._

Wrench exhales sharply, frustrated. _What the hell did he say?!_

_They know._

His veins turn to ice. Oh, no. Oh _fuck._

Numbers runs a hand through his hair again, not noticing that he’s messed it up. He barks out a laugh, desperate and ragged, bordering on hysterical, looking rather like he’s about to cry.

_F-A-R-G-O knows Hammer is back._


	6. Sick

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

The moment they pull into the driveway Numbers is out the door, slamming it behind him as he storms towards the house. Wrench swears under his breath and follows, immediately concerned. Hammer is leaning against the kitchen counter, eating a sandwich while Amelie doodles at the table. His head jerks up when he sees Numbers on the warpath but before he can react the shorter man has already slammed his fist into his nose, visibly seething.

“ASSHOLE!” He grimaces in pain after his fist connects, gritting his teeth against the stinging of his knuckles. Fuck, Hammer isn’t as soft as he’d thought.

“What the fuck?!” Hammer cradles his nose in his hand as blood pours from it, eyes wide. Wrench quickly moves to the table to distract Amelie, getting her to look at him.

_Don’t look, S-W-E-E-T-I-E. What’s that you’re drawing?_

She smiles a little, although her anxiousness is obvious. He hates that she had to be here for this. 

_A K-I-T-T-Y._

“What the fuck was that for?” Hammer braces himself against the counter, his fingers white-knuckled.

Numbers glowers at him, looking rather like he’d like to dump _him_ in a lake.

“You’ve killed us all, Hammer, you fucking moron. Fargo knows.”

The color visibly drains from his face and Wrench grimaces.

_Hey, why don’t we go draw some more in the other room? Come on._ Amelie looks over her shoulder but gets up, gripping his pant leg in her small fist as she follows him from the room. Numbers shoots him a grateful look before turning his attention back to Hammer, who looks like death.

“They….they know..?” He breathes, horrified.

“Are you gonna puke? Don’t--I’ll get a garbage can or something but don’t puke in here.”

“Fuck, oh _fuck_ \--”

Numbers kneads the bridge of his nose between two fingers, sighing heavily. “Jergen called me on a job. Fuckin’ gossip never could keep his mouth shut.”

“What did he say? What do they know?”

He shrugs. “Enough. Not that you’re here necessarily, of if they do know he was at least smart enough not to tell me. But they know you’re back in Fargo.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Numbers responds, his tone biting as he clenches his fist. “ _Shit._ ”

 

Wrench clenches his jaw to keep from gnashing his teeth with anxiety as he watches his niece doodle pink flowers with smiley faces on the back of a newspaper. He’s not sure what to do, not sure that there’s anything _to_ do, that they aren’t going to be dead tomorrow. Fuck. This is beyond fucked up.

As much as he knows he deserves it, as much as he knows they all do--save for the kid--he doesn’t want to die. Certainly doesn’t want Numbers or Hammer to die. 

He feels heat prick behind his eyes and blinks rapidly, struggling to keep his composure. Wrench wants to cry but he sure as shit isn’t about to lose it in front of the kid. Somebody has to keep it together for her, even if his partner and his brother are probably kicking the shit out of each other in the other room.

 

Numbers can’t help the surge of deep, visceral hatred that rushes through him when he looks at Hammer, trying not to panic as the consequences for his stupid fucking actions come crashing down on him. The taller man looks like he may cry or puke or pass out, which is more unsettling that Numbers would like to admit, and he squashes the instinctual desire to fix it that comes from seeing an expression like that on someone who looks so much like his partner.

There’s a part of him that pities Hammer--Letters left them both behind, after all, which at least _one_ of them was smart enough to see coming--but a much larger part of him wants to hit the stupid fucker again for bringing trouble right to their doorstep again. Who’s gonna have to get shot this time? Who’s going to pay the price?

He knows that.

He’s always known.

_Fuck_ , they’re screwed.

“I’m supposed to go talk to the bosses in a day or two,” he says, rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to stave off a growing headache. “Alone.”

Hammer frowns. “Alone?”

“Yeeeeah. Y’know. Since the fucking idiot who ripped off the syndicate and then was dumb enough to come back is my partner’s fucking brother.” 

“Oh.”

“ _Oh_?” Numbers scowls, turning to rummage through the cabinet behind him for some painkillers. “You sign our fucking death warrant and that’s all you have to say for yourself? _Oh?!_ ”

“It’s not my fault.”

That’s it.

He snaps, hurling the fucking pill bottle at Hammer’s face, making him groan painfully and clutch at his still-broken nose as the aspirin opens and spills across the floor.

“How the FUCK is it not your fault?!” 

“I didn’t--”

“What kind of fucking moron are you, Hammer? I mean, _REALLY_?! It’s not your fucking fault?”

Hammer grabs him by the front of his coat and slams his back against the fridge, and with the closer proximity Numbers notices that his face already starting to bruise an ugly purple. Good.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he chokes out, looking so disgustingly sincere that Numbers almost believes him.

“So fucking what?” Numbers shoves him away, fuming.

“So cut me a fucking break!” Hammer’s face is turning red as he throws up his hands in exasperation.

Numbers laughs, bitter and harsh. “Are you fucking kidding me? You ruin all our fucking lives _again_ and you expect me to cut you a break?”

Hammer’s face falls and it only makes Numbers angrier so he shoves him again.

“Christ, man, don’t be so fucking pathetic!”

“Fuck you,” Hammer says, voice hoarse. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want you to _man the fuck up._ ”

He says nothing, only clenches his fists at his sides, so Numbers continues, taking a step closer as he jabs his finger in the taller man’s face.

“ _You_ killed us. Hear me? We’re fucking dead because of you.”

Hammer glares at him. “Are you done?”

“Go fuck yourself. ‘Are you done?’ What kind of--” He exhales sharply, frustrated out of his goddamned mind. “What part of this don’t you understand? It’s--It’s pretty fucking common sense, you dense motherfucker, why the _fuck_ would you come back here?!”

It’s strange, seeing a look of such intense hatred on the face of his partner’s mirror image. Somewhat satisfying, in a self-loathing sort of way. It feels inevitable, like some day he’ll really fuck up and get to see it on Wrench’s face when he finally wises up and leaves him.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He laughs without humor. “Yes you did. You always have a choice.”

“Look, I’m not--” Hammer runs a hand through his curls, biting his lip so hard it bleeds a little. The bruises around his eyes are growing darker. “I’m not how you think I am.”

“That’s funny,” Numbers says, scowling. “ ‘Cause I think you’re a stupid, toxic sack of shit who’s been holding Wrench back his whole fucking life. So far you haven’t disappointed.”

Hammer sneers. “Could say the same for you.”

 

Wrench glances over at Amelie as they sit on the living room floor, their backs to the couch. The look on her face, eyebrows furrowed, face scrunched up in concentration as she draws, is so bizarrely familiar to him, like seeing an old picture of himself from when he was too young to remember. On the surface she looks more like Letters, but her expressions, her mannerisms, are far closer to a weird mixture of his and his brother’s own. 

He’d never really wanted to be a father, never considered it as an option, and especially not now that he’s a hitman, but a part of him has always wondered, if it was somehow physically possible for him and Numbers to have a child of their own, what combination of the two of them would emerge. 

Wrench would hope that their hypothetical offspring would have Numbers’ eyes, if not his neuroses.

One of them is bad enough.

Amelie produces her drawing, beaming from ear to ear, and he grins in spite of himself.

_That looks fantastic._

_You really think so?_

_I do! You’re great, you’ll make a great artist someday._

The little girl only smiled wider, more than a little giddy.

It makes something in his heart hurt. Reminds him of a life he can never have, that he never could have had, especially now. Fuck, who knows if he’ll even live through the week.

Who knows if Amelie will.

Someday may never come, he thinks with a sinking, persistently hopeless feeling.

She frowns at him. _What’s wrong?_

_Nothing_ , he lies with a strained smile. _Everything’s fine. Why don’t you draw me something else?_

 

Numbers freezes. “What?”

It’s Hammer’s turn to take a step forward, looming over him.

“You do realize how much you leaving fucked him up, right?”

He doesn’t respond, clenching his jaw. He’s well aware. The thought has haunted him for years. Eager to finally have the upper hand, Hammer persists, his expression morphing into something between smug and vicious. He’s desperate to hurt Numbers somehow, that much is obvious.

“Your relationship with my brother is fucking sick. You know that, right?”

Numbers’ voice is low, dangerously shaken. “Shut up.”

“All you’ve done is fuck him up. He--” Hammer’s voice cracks miserably, betraying him. “He tried to fucking kill himself, asshole. You said you’d come back for him and--and we both failed him and he got stuck in that fucking place and you never came back. Too busy shooting up, eh?”

Numbers stares blankly at him, fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to leave a mark. “Are you done?”

Hammer scowls, his expression darkening. “You fucking asshole.”

_”Are you done?”_ Numbers is visibly trembling with anger. It’s true, all of it, and the thought makes him want to throw up. 

He doesn’t throw up, but he _does_ get a fist in his face as Hammer punches him hard enough to make him stagger backward before slamming him against the refrigerator again. Numbers grunts in pain before grinning wickedly as the anger in the taller man’s face turns to embarrassment at their close proximity.

“Who’s sick now?”

Later, he would not be able to recall exactly what happened next, who initiated it, but the next thing he knew their lips smashed together, knocking the back of his head against the refrigerator and jarring him hard enough that he realized all at once what exactly he was doing and immediately reflexively bit down on Hammer’s tongue as hard as he could.

“FUCK--” The former hitman shoved away from him, crying out in pain as his hand flew to his mouth. “What the fuck?!” 

His speech was slurred as his tongue swelled up in his mouth. Numbers wipes the side of his mouth on his sleeve, glaring, and doesn’t respond.

“What the fuck was that for?!”

Numbers shoves past him to get away from the refrigerator, leaving the room, heading out the back door into the cool night air. Hammer doesn't follow.

He fumbles for a cigarette, swearing under his breath as he has trouble opening it only to find it empty.

“God fucking--”

The cold hits him all at once, chilling him to the bone as his frustration takes physical form in the vapor of his breath. He could cry, he thinks, if he was the type who did that. The angrier he gets the more he feels tears starting to form.

“Come on….don’t fucking do this...fuck, come on--”

Smacking himself in the temple with the heel of his hand, he continues to mutter obscenities in a failed attempt to keep from crying. Feels the dampness of his cheeks stinging in the cold.

“FUUUUUCK!” He yells, safe in the knowledge that no one he cares for can hear him.


	7. Inertia

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

Wrench finds, as he helps Hammer carry what few belongings he brought from Mexico down to the car, that there’s a lot he’d like to say to his brother if only he could find the words. In the years that he’s been out of his life he’s thought about what he would say if they saw each other again, imagined their reunion many times, but when faced with the prospect of losing him again after only a few days all the things he’s rehearsed in his mind seem to evaporate into nothing. Less than nothing. Vapor. Smoke.

It feels like they’ve had no time at all to catch up, like they’re standing outside a warehouse in Madison, like they’re twenty two again and not nearly as jaded yet as they think they are. And in his mind’s eye Hammer and Letters are grinning and laughing and hugging as they marvel at their newfound wealth, at the prospect of a future, of possibilities, and they don’t know yet that it won’t last, that Letters was never made to be a mother, that she will leave him when their child is only barely old enough to remember her. And he’s there, facing the prospect of a singular existence, Numbers at his side, and they aren’t together but they’re not apart and won’t be for a long while yet.

It’s funny, he thinks. At the time he knew he was fucked, that he’d gone down the sort of road you don’t come back from, but he had _no fucking clue_ how hopeless he truly was.

Looking at Hammer, he thinks that maybe he isn’t the only one.

His brother is scared, that much is obvious. He can’t say he blames him.

At least when they parted in 1995 he was optimistic, thought he and Letters were going to be together, didn’t have a little girl depending on him who could be killed for his mistakes. They were younger then than they’d realized. He wonders, bitterly, if he’ll be thinking the same thing of himself as he is now in a few years. Wonders if he’ll live that long.

Numbers walks out the front door, the little girl’s backpack slung over his shoulder as she follows closely behind, her hand gripping the bottom of his coat. He doesn’t look at her, only walks up to Hammer and shoves the backpack to his chest, not meeting either of their eyes as he stalks over to the front of the car. Amelie hovers by her father for a second, glancing between the two twins before crawling into the back seat.

Wrench frowns. Numbers has been acting strangely ever since he came back inside after his argument with Hammer. He’s not sure he’s made direct eye contact with him for more than a second since. Was weirdly quiet when they were discussing what to do.

Something’s up, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t know what. Isn’t sure he wants to.

_You two don’t have to come with us,_ Hammer signs, eyeing him warily.

Wrench shrugs. _I don’t mind._

He doesn’t say as much but he’s afraid to leave him. Afraid that there won’t be a next time, that this all will be for naught, that the life he and Numbers have built together is at its end. Having had his brother back for such a short time only makes the thought of him leaving again even worse.

Hammer nods slowly, expression unreadable, and walks to the other back seat, directly behind Numbers without another word. Wrench blinks, confused, then closes the trunk and heads around to the driver’s seat.

As the trees on either side of the road speed by, disappearing into the distance and the darkness behind them, Wrench finds himself glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time to check that they’re not being followed. Still, he can’t help the involuntary upward twitch of his lips as he sees his niece sleeping against Hammer’s shoulder as his twin struggles to keep his eyes open. Beside him, Numbers slumps against the passenger side window, the shadows softening his features, even as his brows knit together, expression troubled, and Wrench feels an immediate and familiar surge of affection for his partner.

Of all the things about his life that feel unreal to him, the fact that he actually managed to find love--for seven years, no less--is the most poignantly bizarre. There’s a part of him that wishes he could go back in time and tell his younger self, the version of him that was stranded without his brother in an intolerant environment that reinforced his self loathing strongly enough to drive him to attempt suicide, that he wasn’t going to be alone. That somebody would love him someday. 

It’s sappy and he knows Numbers wouldn’t appreciate it and so he keeps it to himself, but deep down he hopes his partner knows just how thankful he truly is for him.

The car hits a pothole that jolts Numbers awake but doesn’t rouse the two in the back. He blinks groggily, looking around for a second before his gaze lands on Wrench and he visibly calms.

_Are we there yet?_ Wrench grins wryly.

_Almost to the state line. Got a couple more hours until we hit Montana._

He nods slowly, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. “Right, right.”

Wrench watches him a moment, expression blank, before turning back to the road. Numbers draws in on himself, nearly shoving his hands into his armpits in an attempt to stay warm. He scowls, fidgeting in his seat, before tapping Wrench on the arm to get his attention.

_So, what’s the verdict?_

Wrench raises an eyebrow, confused, and mouths ‘what?’. He’s reluctant to take his hands off the wheel right now with the kid in the car.

_Do you think we’d win?_ He laughs quietly for a second, without much humor to it. Numbers is joking, playing on their never-ending issues with the heating, but from the look in his eye Wrench can tell that’s not what this is about. 

Would they win?

It’s a good question, one he’s not sure he knows they answer to anymore.

He’s about to respond when Numbers’ eyes widen and he moves to grab the wheel--”WRENCH!”--and oh, fuck, there’s something in the road, illuminated by the headlights into something blinding, and the car is swerving, nearly running off the road before he slams on the brakes, clutching the wheel with white knuckles as they collide with the guardrail. Wrench jerks forward at the collision before collapsing back into his seat, breathing heavily, then immediately turns to Numbers, checking him for injuries.

_Are you hurt?_ He signs, frantic, his hands hovering awkwardly before Numbers nods, waving away his concern.

Wrench turns around quickly to see his now very awake brother staring back at him, wide eyed, an arm flung protectively in front of his daughter. Amelie is visibly shaken but otherwise fine.

Numbers laughs humorlessly, helplessly, looking like he’d like to cry.

“Fuck,” he breathes shakily. “What the fuck was that?”

Wrench shakes his head in disbelief, grabbing the pistol from the glove compartment before he gets out of the car. Numbers follows, and, after instructing Amelie to stay put, so does Hammer. As they make their way back a few yards to where the crumpled mass lies, barely visible in the harsh glare of the headlights.

“What is it?” Hammer asks, hanging back a bit.

“A wolf,” says Numbers, wrinkling his nose with disgust as he stares down at the thing.

Wrench grimaces, watching the poor animal breathe its last. Wolves are beautiful creatures, he’s always thought so, and to see one die so pointlessly and painfully is a damn shame. Numbers smacks him gently on the arm, offering his hand, and Wrench wordlessly gives him the gun before turning back to the car.

It takes ten more minutes for Wrench and Hammer to push the car back onto the road before they can get to driving again. Nobody says anything until they’re in Montana, well on their way to some small, shitty town’s shitty motel. It’s late, late enough that the sun is starting to rise by the time they stop.

While Hammer pays for the room Wrench and Numbers take Amelie to the gas station a few blocks away. She looks around at the candy and postcards, excited in that child’s way to be doing anything other than sitting in the car. Numbers is visibly exhausted, yawning as he sort of sways in place, and Wrench slips his hand in his behind the novelty T-shirts and gives a reassuring squeeze.

Later, outside the motel, he will find himself in the same dilemma he faced years before.

How to talk to his brother.

They stand outside the room, Numbers already back in the car and Amelie asleep inside, and he finds that all the things he could think to say dry up on his tongue.

Thankfully, in the end he doesn’t have to.

Hammer tries for a smile, awkward and fleeting, before beginning to sign as slowly and foreignly as if he hadn’t been doing it all his life. _Do you remember Christmas when we were kids?_

Wrench laughs, although he doesn’t much feel like it. He’s surprised Hammer remembers what he’d said back then.

_I remember the trains._

There’s something in the expression on his brother’s face, like he’s somewhere else, still keeping some secret despite the ever-looming prospect of their imminent separation. Wrench doesn’t ask.

Instead he forces a smile, playfully punches Hammer’s arm, says things like _Take care_ and _Don’t forget to write_ even though he knows that he will likely never hear from him again, and turns to leave. It’s less painful that way, he thinks, and that’s how they’ve always been.

But Hammer grabs his arm.

Pulls him into a crushing hug that at first he doesn’t know how to respond to but then he tentatively wraps his arms around his twin, digging his fingers into the denim of his jacket as if it could make him stay.

When he pulls away, Hammer’s eyes are shining wet, and he tells Wrench he’ll write him once they have everything together to head for Canada, and those are the platitudes he knows, those are familiar, so he leaves it at that, leaves his twin standing in the doorway to the motel room, illuminated by the light within, as he watches Wrench walk back to his car.

He climbs into the driver’s seat just as Numbers hangs up the phone, his expression decidedly blank. 

Later, Wrench will recall this as the point where he could have changed what happened.

Could have said something.

Could have changed the plan.

But he didn’t. When he asked Numbers about the call and his partner lied, he didn’t press.

Didn’t say anything the rest of the night.

Later, he will recall this as the moment his inaction killed his brother.


	8. Interlude

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

There comes a point, a fork in the proverbial road, when one has to make a choice upon which lives hang in the balance, upon which the life they themselves have built is at stake. Most people don’t recognize those moments when they come. Most don’t have the chance. So you’d think that if you were to know that making a particular choice would result in people dying, in losing everything, that it would be an easy decision.

The problem arises when you lose the ones you love no matter what choice you make.

And so Numbers finds himself sitting alone in the passenger seat of his partner’s car, staring straight ahead at the steep hill at the edge of the parking lot where the pavement ends and the trees seem to be swallowed down into a great and gaping chasm, into darkness, into nothing. His grip around the burner phone in his hand tightens and he finds himself chewing the inside of his mouth as he’s faced with that very opportunity to make a choice:

Betray Hammer or risk Wrench?

He thinks, with a sinking feeling, that he will lose Wrench no matter what he does. If he turns in his brother there’s no fucking way his partner will ever speak to him again--hell, he’d be lucky if he let him live after that--but if he doesn’t, there’s a very good chance that they’ll all die.

And so when the call comes it is no surprise.

“Boss man wants to talk to you,” Jergen says, uncharacteristically to-the-point. “Alone.”

So he knows.

He knows everything.

“That so?” Numbers replies, unaware that he is trembling, his eyes glassy and blank.

“Come in tomorrow. Don’t tell Wrench, he says. Told me to tell you...”

“What, Jergen?”

“Oh, is that my name I’m hearin’? Lovely.”

His grip tightens. _”Jergen.”_

He hears the Australian sigh heavily over the phone before he begins speaking again, voice tinny and slightly muffled. “Tripoli told me to tell you not to blow this.”

Numbers frowns. “What?”

“We’re giving you a chance, he said. Don’t blow it.”

“Don’t…?”

“Have it done.”

Have it done, he thinks..

He knows exactly what ‘it’ is. Wishes he didn’t.

And with that he hung up, leaving Numbers alone in the silence and darkness of the motel parking lot once again, still holding the phone up to his ear when he heard the driver’s seat door close. Scrambling to put the phone away, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Wrench until his partner tapped him on the arm, frowning.

So damned concerned, as always.

_Who was that?_ He asks, slow and deliberate, and Numbers grits his teeth.

So here it is. The moment. The choice he has to make. He’s going to lose him either way, he thinks, because Tripoli knows everything and because there’s only so many times you can roll the dice with the syndicate before your luck runs out.

And so he lies.

And he can tell that Wrench knows it, sees it in the square set of his jaw, the decidedly unreadable look in his eyes. Fuck, he has to know. But he doesn’t say anything, only starts up the engine without a word, so maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he trusts him. Maybe he knows it’s a lie but doesn’t realize just what for. Maybe he thinks he’s cheating.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Numbers looks away, leaning against the window so that Wrench cannot read his lips because he has to say it, has to feel like he said it, even if he can’t bring himself for Wrench to know. An absolution of guilt more than an apology. Because there’s nothing to apologize for, ultimately. He was always going to do this, he thinks, it was inevitable from the moment that stupid motherfucker Hammer came back, dragged his kid into this. It was inevitable; just as Letters was always going to leave, he was always going to be the piece of shit that he is.

He was always going to do what he had to.

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one. “I won’t lose you like this. Not for him.”

Funny, he doesn’t feel particularly absolved.


	9. Self Preservation

Fargo, ND  
2003

 

Moonlight filtering through the slits in the blinds, Numbers finds himself shivering in the dark, drawing the ratty old motel room blanket closer around himself even as the dead weight of his partner’s arm drapes over his side. He’d like to sleep, he thinks. He really would. But he knows what he has to do, knows the threat implicit in Tripoli’s message, in the things left unsaid.

He can make it easy or he can make it hard.

And, if he’s being honest with himself, there never really _was_ a choice. Not a real one. Not one that meant anything.

Carefully, deliberately, he slides from the bed without waking Wrench and gets to his feet.

Numbers is a bad man, that he knows very well. Always has. Violence runs in his veins--or stupidity. His parents’ car is ever sinking to the bottom of the river, and he isn’t about to let himself drown with it. To let Wrench drown with it.

He gets dressed, grabs his gun from the nightstand, meticulous and robotic in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. Between his ears there is nothing. Static. All the better for doing what must be done, no matter how the thought sickens him. When all is said and done he lingers in the doorway, looking back towards the bed, a part of him hoping that Wrench would wake up and catch him in the act so he didn’t have to go through with it.

They could leave.

They could run away, take Hammer and Amelie and fuck off to somewhere even Fargo can’t reach.

A strained, mirthless smile tugs at the side of his mouth. That’s what Hammer thought, isn’t it? And look where that got him.

No, no. The walls are closing in, he thinks. The time for running has long passed. 

It’s too late. Maybe it always was.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the silent room, voice breaking, and turns to leave.

It’s still dark when he pulls into the parking lot of the hotel and leans on the horn a moment to get Hammer’s attention. The taller man emerges from the door, sees him, and his expression goes immediately grim. Amelie appears behind him in the doorway and he shoots Numbers an anxious glance before handing her some money and indicating somewhere down the street, where she reluctantly goes.

Numbers gets it.

He’s grateful for it.

Hammer watches her go for a long, solemn moment before making his way to the car and climbing into the passenger seat.

Numbers drums his fingers on the wheel, avoiding his gaze.

“What do you want?” Hammer asks, visibly nervous no matter how he tries to hide it, his jaw clenched in the same way Wrench does sometimes when he’s especially tense. Numbers feels ill.

“I--”

“Look, if this is about what happened the other day, that was--”

“Shut up, Hammer.”

He does.

“We’re not talking about that.”

“Okay.”

“Not now, not ever.”

“ _Okay_.”

Numbers nods slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening as he exhales sharply through his nose, before turning the key in the ignition. “Right. Let’s go for a drive, then.”

Wrench doesn’t know what exactly it is that stirs him in the middle of the night, but nonetheless he wakes suddenly to find the bed beside him cold, unconsciously gripping the mattress where his partner was supposed to be before he sits up and rubs at his eyes, confused. 

Where the fuck is he?

Surely by this point, they’ve been together long enough for Numbers to have gotten over his bullshit about never staying the night.

Unless he’s left.

Wrench draws his knees in close to his chest, worrying the fabric on his pant leg between his fingers as he blinks slowly. In his mind’s eye he’s a kid again and Jerry is leaving and he watches him go and--

His grip tightens.

No, shut up, he tells himself.

This is stupid.

This is irrational.

He isn’t this insecure, not anymore, not ever, but with the way things have been lately there’s still a stupid fucking voice at the back of his head telling him that Numbers is going to up and ditch him to save his own skin, get out while he still can, before Fargo catches on.

His partner is a survivor, that much he knows. If he didn’t know better he’d say Numbers was going to live forever off tenacity alone, that maybe he couldn’t be killed.

It’s something he’s always been thankful for, but a part of him has always worried about just how much he is worth when measured against Numbers’ self preservation.

This could kill them, he thinks.

In more ways than one.

And so he makes a choice.

They say nothing during the drive, Numbers tensed like a coil as he grips the steering wheel, Hammer staring blankly out the window as the dark trees go by faster and faster.

“Amelie’s a good kid,” Hammer says, voice uncharacteristically even-measured.

“Yeah,” says Numbers, his discomfort growing. “Yeah, she is,”

“Real smart. Smarter than me, anyways.”

“That’s not hard.”

“Shut up,” Hammer replies, but his mouth twitches upwards.

“She looks more like Letters,” Numbers says, ignoring the tightening in his chest at the thought of his former friend.

“Yeah, thank god for that.”

Nodding slowly, chewing the inside of his mouth, Numbers feels guilt sink to the bottom of his stomach like a stone in a lake.

“Where’d you send her off to?”

“The store.” Hammer is silent a long moment before he turns to look at Numbers, more visibly distraught than the older man has ever seen him.

“Please,” he says, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he means.

Numbers understands

“I’m not a monster,” he says, although he knows that not to be true. No, he is exactly the sort of monster to do such a thing, already has, and in his mind’s eye he sees a little boy in Spiderman pajamas crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

He’s a monster, that much he has always known.

But he won’t be. Not this time. What he’s already set out to do is monstrous enough.

But Hammer doesn’t know about that blood-splattered bedroom across the country, and so he nods, looking relieved.

“When you turn me in, don’t tell them about her.”

Numbers freezes, exhaling sharply, before pulling over to the side of the road.


End file.
